


you're all really bad at this

by kiiouex



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alcohol, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, References to Drugs, Very Ineptly, Violence, etcetera - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6439711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skov’s breath stinks like bile, and Swan’s solution is to offer him another bottle of something to sweeten it. Jiang sags onto a couch on his own, scrapes a hand through his hair either distressed or dramatic, and Kavinsky’s arms settle around you, warm and so familiar. He drags a fond hand up the back of your neck, you lick the blood from between his teeth, and he laughs again, giddy. “Good night, yeah?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're all really bad at this

**Author's Note:**

> I am such a sucker for hurt/comfort, especially very badly done hurt/comfort by people who don't know what they're doing lmao this is pretty self indulgent. This is also basically 100% based on [f0x-meets-w0lf's](http://f0x-meets-w0lf.tumblr.com/) blog and art and headcanons, if you want quality dreampack I couldn't recommend them enough.
> 
> Thanks to [telekinesiskid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid) for putting up with me and beta'ing.

Kavinsky had said it was going to be a _nice_ party. He told you to dress up, and you did, a dark blue suit neat enough for church. Jiang had looked model-sharp and grinned at everyone’s eyes on him, Swan had dripped gold and danger, Skov had done his best. Kavinsky had slicked his hair back, turned his collar out, and worn a suit so fine you were sure it wasn’t real. You’d rolled the charcoal fabric between your fingers and he’d smirked while you tried to find a seam.

You don’t really remember leaving the party, but you remember arriving, and it had all been so posh, canapes and champagne offered in exchange for the parcel Kavinsky was there to deliver. Mostly out-of-towners, mostly people who didn’t know any of you yet. It didn’t take Kavinsky long to make friends. Leaving was a blur of shouts and cracks, gleaming knives and gleaming guns, your little switchblade dripping something warm into your hands, the frozen moment of a fist slamming into the side of your head, and the sped-up seconds afterwards, Kavinsky viciously kicking the _shit_ out of whoever had touched you. You made it back to the Evo, Kavinsky waited to count three bodies pile into Jiang’s Supra, and now you’re roaring back to Henrietta, bruised, nauseous, victorious.

Kavinsky’s howling with laughter in the passenger seat, blood spattered from his nose down his front, all his teeth edged in red. He tries wiping it away but only succeeds in staining his cuff a mottled black-red, mostly his and some from a prep boy who couldn’t tell that what he was handling was _live_. He takes a corner too hard, throwing you up against the window, and you think _seatbelt_ as a hazy afterthought but your fingers are too slow to figure out the clasp. You abandon it, leave the latch streaked crimson, roll along with every harsh turn of the wheel and wince when you smack into the window again. Kavinsky snorts at you, and takes the next corner smooth.

It takes you a while to separate the thrum of the engine from the throbbing beat in your head, but you find the pain eventually, nestled deep behind your eyes with a low, cruel pulse. Your fingers are sticky, your arm is aching, there’s a bloody knife seeping deep, black stains into the pocket of your suit, and you curl up against the door, watching the furious rush of Henrietta lights as they pass. After that kind of adrenaline, everything else is too slow to be real. Kavinsky doesn’t play music, and you’re glad, because you think the bass would rattle your teeth right out.

The Supra pulls up alongside you, a gleaming, fierce thing that hurls wailing lines of synthetic orchestra against the Evo’s side. It’s not a challenge, but the Mitsubishi still shoots forward, Kavinsky’s sneer glowing ultraviolet in the dashboard lights. Jiang’s smart enough not to fight him for the lead and his headlights settle in the centre of your rear view mirror.

You lose track of where you are, street after street blending together until the ride starts to slow. Details come into sharp, sudden focus as the world around you renders unevenly. Kavinsky’s brought you to his house and you fall out of the Mitsubishi onto one of the spares beside it in the garage, blinking dully at your reflection in the black glass.

Jiang parks outside and Skov immediately rolls out to throw up. Swan follows, already laughing, and holds him upright. Both of them waded into the fight at the first hint of violence, because they always do, because they keep telling you it’s _fun_ , though you don’t believe them. Future bruises are swelling, red and sore on their cheeks, and Skov’s knuckles are triumphantly bloody. Swan keeps tasting his split lip, and you can’t remember if he had a piercing in his eyebrow when you left because he doesn’t have one now and the side of his head is gleaming in the low garage lights.

You have to help Kavinsky haul Jiang out of the car, and it’s impossible to tell what’s wrong with him when his suit’s as black as spilled ink, if he’s hurt or just half out of his head. His breath is an electric cocktail on your face and you just have to admire his driving.

It’s a combined effort to get all five of you inside. Kavinsky’s mother is as scarce as ever, thank god, and you collapse in the first room that you haven’t already ruined. Skov’s breath stinks like bile, and Swan’s solution is to offer him another bottle of something to sweeten it. Jiang sags onto a couch on his own, scrapes a hand through his hair either distressed or dramatic, and Kavinsky’s arms settle around you, warm and so familiar. He drags a fond hand up the back of your neck, you lick the blood from between his teeth, and he laughs again, giddy. “Good night, yeah?”

“This was my best suit,” Skov complains, as though it’s any kind of loss. Swan’s draped around his shoulders; he’ll recover.

“Proko,” Kavinsky says, and it takes you too long to drag your attention over to him, so he sets his fingers under your chin and turns you. He can tell when things are moving that little bit too fast for you, and he snaps his fingers in front of your unfocused eyes. “Still with us?”

“Mmhm.” You nod, and the world dips up and down in a very long motion that you have to catch up to. Your head is still throbbing, and your hands are still sticky. Kavinsky rolls your sleeves up and finds why your arm is aching, finds the long gash torn through your skin. You stare at it, surprised. “Wonder when that happened.”

Kavinsky snorts, and smacks you on the shoulder hard enough that you judder. When you’re steady again you find he’s left you, on his feet and heading out of the room. “Swan’s bleeding,” Skov yells after him, “Get something for that.”

“Jiang’s dying,” Swan adds. Jiang flips him off, and Swan leans over to wrap his lips around the extended middle finger. Your lips curl up into a smile, a lazy wave of delight stroking up your spine. You think it might help your headache. You crawl across miles of carpet to Jiang, pushing yourself up on your knees between his legs, lick the dregs of whatever he’s been drinking off his lips. He tastes like peach and vodka and battery acid and you suck greedily on his tongue while his hands cup the back of your head, pulling on your hair somewhere between playful and painful. You can’t tell if it feels good or not, and when he pulls back you grin at him, hazily content.

“You look like they knocked something loose,” Jiang says, and laughs, ruffling a hand through your hair. There are specks of red on his jaw, and you stare at them, caught by the contrast, until Skov and Swan reach for you at the same time and drag you back until you’re tangled up against them.

“Don’t fucking listen to him,” Swan says, and his split lip is a glistening mess. He lets you kiss him anyway, taste the awful copper tang. He’s stretched out easily around Skov, and so much more sober than the rest of you, smirking at a joke too far away for you to understand. He’s got one hand curled around Skov’s throat, either covering bruises he’s left or marking out where he’ll put them in future.

You don’t know how long it takes Kavinsky to return, but it’s long enough for you to lay back on Skov’s lap and count all the cuts on his hand. He likes your light touch, and he tries not to accidentally twist you off him while he arches up against Swan. You’re probably in the way, but you don’t even try to move, just rub your fingers over the torn skin of his knuckles and watch him try to fumble Swan out of his pants.

“Dead yet, Jiang?” Kavinsky asks, throwing him a little bag of pills. They’re a translucent orange that you don’t recognise and Jiang eyes them for a long moment before tossing one back. Relief flashes across his face and he eases himself back against the couch, lets his eyes close. You kick him to check he’s still alive, and he kicks you back, managing to knock your ankle the wrong way and send a shudder of pain through you. You kick him again, harder, and then Kavinsky drops down to straddle your thighs and forces your legs still.

Kavinsky is holding the least likely objects you’ve ever seen him with: rolls of gauze, a box of band aids and a bottle of antiseptic. They stink like old shampoo and the back of a bathroom cabinet, and Skov snatches for the bottle before you can grab it. “Don’t fucking drink it,” Kavinsky snaps.

“I wasn’t going to,” Skov snarls back, pulling the top off so the smell rolls out to sting your nose. He yanks Swan down until he’s in easy reach, appraises the jagged tear in his eyebrow, and starts to clean him up. Kavinsky didn’t bring an actual first aid _kit_ so it’s a messy process, which Swan points out every time the bitter liquid bites into him. Skov nods at every complaint, tells him, “Shut up, I’m fixing you,” and Swan shuts up.

Your fingers find their way up the bloody trail on Kavinsky’s face, ghost over the cracked, drying blood on him. He shoves your hands aside and finds the gash on your arm again. The bleeding has stopped but it still throbs, near-black and terrible. Kavinsky upends the antiseptic over you and it scours your skin, eats into you like acid, almost strong enough to bring you back to earth.

“Hold still, Proko, Jesus,” he says, and you try to stop flinching for him. He loops gauze around your arm, more an imitation of medical care than anything effective, but you enjoy the attention anyway. Kavinsky’s working hard to focus, and it makes your lips curve up again, stupid and pleased as he covers the worst of your wound.

Jiang left when you weren’t watching, but he proves himself more useful than Kavinsky when he makes it back with wet towels. He eases one over Kavinsky’s bloody face, and Kavinsky lets his head loll back, glare something between insulted and indulgent. You take another one, smooth it over Skov’s bloody knuckles even though you’re leaving your own red fingerprints over everything. There’s still a bloody switchblade tucked neatly in your pocket, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

Skov puts a plaster over Swan’s brow, and it’s a vicious neon green that makes you snicker. You try to stick one over one of Skov’s cuts, but your clumsy fingers apply it sideways, and then Kavinsky amuses himself with slapping a dozen haphazardly over your arms. Somehow, between you, everything gets covered.

By the time Jiang’s done with Kavinsky, you’re at the stage of tired where blinking feels like a dangerous segue into sleep. The room around you is a blur of safely-neutral wallpaper and bloody carpet, and the others are the only things in it that feel real. They’re steady and warm, wrapped around each other and you, a tangle of arms and legs and black eyes and wicked smiles, Skov still beneath you and Kavinsky a steady weight pinning your hips.

Kavinsky pushes something into your mouth and you swallow automatically. The ebbing pulse in your head finally fades out, and your bones get so heavy, leaden things that drag you further down. Someone cups your cheek, someone tugs on your hair, there’s a laugh from a world away and the sound seems to echo in your ears until you’re not sure it was ever real. The only thing that counts is the gauze ineptly tied over your arm, the pangs that promise to hurt worse in the morning, the four bodies around you that smell like beer and burning. You’re theirs. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I'd love to know what you thought!! I also [tumblr](http://kiiouex.tumblr.com/)


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